


Mrs Hudson's Home for Wayward Monsters

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All in rhymes, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Christmas, Gen, Implied/Referenced Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 13:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: What's a Christmas dinner without a bunch of monsters, too much food, arguments and games?





	Mrs Hudson's Home for Wayward Monsters

It was a Monday, 

but it could have been any other day. 

He only remembered that detail

because for once, he had received mail. 

A care package from Harry, 

full of biscuits, tea and a bottle of whisky.

His mates cheered and made away with it.

John laughed. He didn’t care.

That’s what you did in the army: you share...

Even when everything goes to shit.

 

And to shit, it did.

George and Liam, Olly and Sid,

All of them dead,

his own life hanging on by a thread.

The hot desert sand swallowed him whole,

No breath, no pulse, no heartbeat,

No pain, no cold, no heat.

Just him, John, his soul.

He wandered in the dark, waiting for a call:

A light, a prayer, his name, anything at all.

 

When it came, he was just there,

Standing on a street in the cool night air,

“Good,” John thought. “It means I'm not dead, 

If I can feel everything from my toes to my head.”

He wore his fatigues like he did everyday,

And thought today might still be that Monday.

But this wasn't Afghanistan, it was in fact London

It said so right there on the Underground Station.

However, people nearby looked at him strangely,

And he wondered if maybe it wasn't done 

To be seen walking around this peaceful city

Wearing tactical gear and a big scary gun.

 

“No matter, I must be here for a reason,

I really don't see any other explanation.”

John wasn't a believer by any stretch of the imagination,

But if he had died, it was his only consolation.

The scream of panicked people is the same everywhere,

It tears at his heart and pounds in his ears

He orients himself and feels out the fear,

Sees a white van crashing through the cheer.

“It's Christmas!” he realizes, aims and shoots.

The van slows, stops, then hoots. 

The driver has slumped over the horn

Leaving behind many people to mourn. 

 

“Not good enough,” it pained John to say,

Staring at flattened presents in gold, green and red.

He helped as much as he could by giving first aid

Until he heard sirens, then just walked away.

“What shall I do now? Return to the dark?

I really don't want to.” He sat in a park.

Came this old lady who stopped by his bench.

“You alright, dear? You look like a retch.”

John smiled wanly, waved towards the commotion. 

“Oh, that's not good,” she said, full of emotion,

“Why don't you come in for a nice cup of tea?”

No pun intended, that sounded heavenly,

So John stood and followed the kind old lady,

Who didn’t live far, the door said 221B.

 

She had a warm little home that smelled of cake,

And had more tea-cosies than her teapots could take.

“Where do you come from, looking like that?”

She asked, giving his uniform a perfunctory pat.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth.”

He told her sincerely and sipped at his tea.

“Maybe I will. I've seen some things in my youth.”

With nothing to lose, save her hospitality,

John told her what had happened since he'd last left his base,

After which she nodded and told him he had found the right place.

 

A terrible sound suddenly pierced their eardrums 

And had her muttering about her weird ones.

“Come with me, I might as well introduce you,

From now on, if you want, you'll be staying with him.”

Curious, John followed her into a flat which seemed grim.

He blinked in the dark entrance, half-expecting a ghoul.

The stranger who greeted him did look otherworldly

But more like those vampires which are somehow all sparkly:

A bit ridiculous, true, but they are rather pretty.

John stared like a fish then asked: “What is he?”

“Interesting choice of words,” said he musingly.

“Is this little treat my Christmas gift come early?”

 

The old lady pushed him in and chuckled heartily,

And John wondered if maybe he should worry.

“Don't make me sound like a witch from old

Luring children out from the cold

Only to push them in my oven to eat.

As you can well see, this one here just won't fit.”

The humour was quite lost on John

Who thought now might be a good time to run.

“Hush, now Mrs Hudson, let's not scare out friend

We're having a Christmas Party, will you please attend?”

His eyes were pale and his teeth rather pointy, 

His first impression might have been the right one.

But who was he to judge, himself akin to a zombie,

As long as he wasn't to be served in a bun

Or stuffed on a plate instead of the turkey.

With that in mind, John nodded to agree.

 

The first guest arrived and seemed normal enough:

dark eyes, silver hair, he looked a bit gruff.

John came to the conclusion he might have been wrong,

And that he had been played by his hosts all along.

“Hello there, my name is Gregory Lestrade,

Seeing a new face this year makes me glad.”

“John Watson,” he then introduced himself,

Shook the man's hand and winced at his strength,

So powerful he had to be more than mere human.

But no time to be alarmed, entered a woman

Who made him freeze and gape and probably drool.

“Don’t worry about Irene, it always happens at first,

She’ll turn any man who sees her into a right fool.”

His words cut through the fog, helped him dispel the curse

of whatever that wonderful woman had put him under.

John now looked at the guests with renewed wonder.

 

“What the hell did I get myself into?” John wondered aloud

and looked more closely at the assembled crowd.

Nothing stood out if you glanced at them quickly,

But one was translucent, the other blindfolded,

One could make him feel love, the other dread.

And he wondered how he fit in this strange company.

“Sherlock didn’t tell you? What is he thinking?

He's not a good host, but usually more welcoming.”

With that, Lestrade led him to the food-laden table

Decorated like something right out of a fable.

“You overdid it again,” Sherlock was complaining

At Mrs Hudson who added more gravy and stuffing.

 

Once everyone was seated, they looked at him expectantly.

John reminded himself he had nothing to worry,

But could only say: “Thank you for welcoming me.”

They clapped and cheered, then asked for his story,

All except Sherlock who wanted to play a game.

“A game?” they complained. “It always ends the same!”

John was confused: “Would someone please explain?”

“This berk here,” Lestrade said pointing at Sherlock. “Is a pain.

He deduces all your secrets, it's really insane.

The only thing he can't tell is when it will rain.”

John thought that sounded like a brilliant idea,

Because he didn't know himself what he was supposed to be.

The rules were quite simple: they would ask one question,

Then offer a guess until the final solution.

 

“Lady's first,” said the woman who had him love-struck.

“Tell me, little man, do you bring good or bad luck?”

John shook his head and reigned in his temper.

Sherlock snorted, saying: “Surely, you can do better,

Than think he's a fairy 

Just because he's shorter than many.”

She laughed, the sound mocking, and batted her eyelashes,

It had him wishing he could turn her to ashes.

“In that case, I say he’s the abominable snowman.”

“That's just silly,” said in answer the translucent man.

“You're not even trying. I, however, can see from your tan,

You were recently deployed in Iraq or Afghanistan.

So my question is: What happened in the desert?”

John raised his eyebrows at this self-proclaimed expert.

“An ambush, I died and reappeared here,” 

John explained succinctly with a shrug.

“Then shot a mad driver crashing through the cheer,”

Mrs Hudson added looking rather smug.

“So you must be a guardian angel, most assuredly,

Or my name isn't James Moriarty.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock said, “There is no such thing,

Cheating at this game still won't make you king.

 

How about you, brother dear? any idea?”

The man in the blindfold turned in his direction approximately

“Seeing as I can't see him, are you trying to be funny?

Or do you want him petrified? It's all the same to me.”

“Excuses, excuses…” Sherlock singsonged. “How about you Molly?”

“You know I’m no good at this,” the other woman whispered timidly.

She looked like a mouse and spoke so softly it was barely audible,

And yet, so near her, John couldn’t help but feel dread near palpable.

“Don’t be shy, I don’t think he bites,” Lestrade encouraged,

Molly hesitated, took a deep breath and whispered:

“Since you’ve returned, what is your number one obsession?”

“Oh! Good one, Molly!” said Sherlock. “What a jolly good question!”

John thought so too and took some time for consideration,

but his mind always fixated on the purpose of protection.

“Then I venture to say you might be a Golem,” whispered Molly.

“As protection is known as their primary duty.”

 

“That, I can tell you, he is not,” Lestrade said with a toothy grin.

“I can hear his heart beat and smell the human on his skin.”

John discretely sniffed himself, wondering what Lestrade might be

That he had such a good sense of smell and hearing.

His question was even more out of the ordinary:

“Can you snap your fingers, see what happens?

Because you seem pretty normal all things considered,

except for the fact that you cheated death.”

John nodded, amused. Everyone held their breath.

John snapped his fingers… in silence they waited.

“Nothing,” Lestrade chuckled. “It was worth a try.

My guess is that, in the end, you’re just a normal guy

with a bout of amnesia and a wild imagination.”

“I know that’s not it,” John replied with some indignation.

 

Sherlock came to his rescue , still playing the game,

his question wasn’t one but he asked all the same:

“May I touch you, Captain John Watson of the RAMC?”

At that, the guests catcalled and hooted with glee. 

Someone even threw a twig of mistletoe at their head

While John did his best not to blush a bright red.

His extended a hand, thus giving permission

And Sherlock took it with some precipitation.

His fingers were cool and slipped under his sleeve somehow.

“You’re all idiots, I have known for a while now,

By the way he leaves sand everywhere in his wake,

By the way he seeks heat sources like a snake,

By the way he can travel instantaneously,

By the way he can kill without a shred of pity,

It’s obvious he could only be a djinn. 

So… I win”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And a Merry Christmas to all my dear readers! Can you guess what the others are?


End file.
